Training Day
by quesse.beryl
Summary: How do the boys keep sharp in between hunts? Gotta maintain those skills. Oneshot. Innocent little scenario, you should like it.Time for me to give back to the Supernatural community:


_Well, this is my first Supernatural fic, though I've read thousands probably by this point. Let me know what you all think of this one, maybe I'll do a sequel._

_Basically, the boys have too much energy pent up from hours in the car and take a day to do some practice shooting, among other things. Oneshot._

* * *

"You as bored as I am?" 

Sam jerked out of his foggy reverie, his eyes breaking away from the blur of wheat fields swimming endlessly around the road and the sleek, black car upon it. For as much as Dean was trying to hide it, it was glaringly obvious to Sam that he was practically itching to get out and stretch his legs, or just to _do_ something. They had gone through five tapes and even Dean was beginning to tire of the rock music they'd heard a thousand times before. Sam knew what that meant: time to train.

"Sure. We're pretty much out in the middle of nowhere."

Dean nodded his head, trying to act casual, and, right on schedule:

"You wanna do some shooting? Break out the guns? Have us some fun?"

Sam looked around. No gravel roads in sight, just the black top they were on, stretching out for miles. No roads branching off meant no houses, and no people to hear the gunshots.

"Alright. Let's do it."

A quick, boyish grin briefly lit Dean's face as he smoothly pulled the car over to the shallow shoulder of the road. He'd already cleaned their entire collection of varied firearms the night before, so they were all set to go.

Good old Midwestern style, they set up cans on the fence posts. It was a great way to get rid of the garbage in the backseat, Sam thought as he took aim.

Military fashion, they each went through every gun, keeping themselves intimately familiar with each. If the need should arise, which it frequently did, there could be no room for hesitation or conscious thought. Muscle memory alone saved their lives sometimes.

Feel, load, point, shoot.

They made use of the natural obstacle course the field offered as well. There was rarely an opportunity to stand still to make your shot in their line of business. Nor did their targets remain motionless, but that was a hard situation to simulate for practice.

Running across the uneven ground, avoiding potholes, jumping fallen logs and piles of debris, scaling a fence, and tumbling between strands of barbed wire kept them sharp, focused, and in good physical shape.

Just to burn off the energy pent up from countless hours in the car was a relief. They quickly found out, though neither would admit it to the other, that they fought less after a training session. After so many similar sessions with their father when they were younger, it had become a sort of bonding ritual, though either brother would cringe to hear it labeled such.

They worked through each of the smaller guns, steadily increasing caliber. While they tried to make reloading as quick as possible, ordinarily they left speed reloading for restless nights in motel rooms. It was a good cure for boredom and honed their reflexes.

Training was, by unwritten, unspoken law, no bickering time. Light banter, yes. But the formative years of their lives spent with John, the Marine, taught them that training was survival. Down-to-work, no room for screwing around, business.

After the scurrying around with the pistols and sawed-off's, it was time to move up to the rifles.

Upright, kneeling, and prone. Short range, long range. With sights, without sights. Every kind of ammo they had in the trunk that wasn't near depletion.

When every weapon had been tested, mastered, and perfected, they packed up and reorganized the trunk. Loose bullets found their boxes and inventories were taken. Supplies were assessed and a list made for the next stop.

As they ventured into the field to make a final sweep for shells and stray bullets, the banter resumed from the comfortable silence that had reigned for the past couple hours.

"I don't know Sammy. Seems to me that you've been slackin' since the last time we shot off a few rounds."

Sam, of course, had shot nearly as well as his brother; it was difficult to keep score when they were both shooting.

Deciding to take the bait—the bright day had them both in good spirits—Sam replied, "Really, Dean? Because it 'seems to me' that you let quite a few go off into nowhere and nearly did a faceplant into a stump."

With that statement, and the memory it invoked, Sam's strangled giggle escaped his throat.

"It's not my fault it was muddy in just that one spot in this whole damned field!"

Glancing down, pouting but pretending not to, he kicked up the dirt, muttering, "Stupid field." His foot kicked up a spent bullet, sending it scuttling over to Sam.

"Hey, you missed one there Sammy."

With an indignant roll of the eyes to his contrite brother, Sam bent down to retrieve the shiny metal. Perfect opportunity. Playfulness back, Dean quickly took advantage with a well-placed shove tipping Sam just off balance, so he had to flounder his long limbs in a vain attempt to right himself before he toppled to the dirt, Dean laughing uproariously in the background. Of course.

"Oh, real funny Dean."  
"I sure thought so!"

In his fit of laughter, Dean couldn't see the legs that took his out from under him.

It was on.

Impromptu sparring matches were common between the Winchester boys, but had been lacking lately due to the heightened stress of recent situations.

Shirts were soon abandoned for "real man fighting" as Dean liked to call it. The August sun shone down on their sweating bodies, accentuating quick motions that flicked droplets into the summer air. Straining muscles, light feet, and fast hands. Confident laughter, sharp curses, and muffled grunts.

Boy fun in its purest form.

By unspoken truce (or rather, Sam's refusal to admit surrender and say "Dean is the King of the World" while his head was being buried in the dirt) they ended up sprawled out, gasping for air like fish on the docks, grinning like idiots.

Eventually, they'd end up back in the car, traveling down that lonesome road, worries returning to the forefront of their minds. Eventually, they'd wind up in some bar playing pool, next to some run-down motel, getting some money for supplies and ammo. Eventually, they'd remember to look for their next hunt.

But for now, it was enough to just lay there in the empty wheat field, listening to the sound of their panting breaths and feeling nothing but the fatigue in their muscles and the cool breeze on their hot skin.

For now, it was enough just to be two brothers.

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_Hey! Did you all like it? Give me a holler, a shout, or better yet, a review! Thanks for reading!!_


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